


The Ends And The Means

by aseaofhoney



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (I say mine but my mum came up with it), Betrayal, Character Study, Crimes & Criminals, Double Agents, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Undercover Missions, all of this could be canon thx to the first person pov of the books, grey morality, here's my theory on Why Lesley Did That, lesley is a double agent, mb not in keeping with comic book canon tho, nightingale is very morally grey, there's a lot of internal conflict and character analysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-05-13 17:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseaofhoney/pseuds/aseaofhoney
Summary: "Maybe it was different when the act was pre-meditated. Less life-altering somehow. She'd been meditating on killing Martin for a long, long time."In the late spring of 2013, Lesley May became a wanted criminal after aiding the escape of Martin Chorley, aka The Faceless Man, by tasering her colleague and friend Peter Grant in the back (he's still bitter about it, by the way). Almost two years later she prevented Chorley's arrest a second time -- by shooting him in the head.To the DPS, the rest of the Met, her old friends and ex-colleagues, this was the natural progression from criminal to maniac that they'd all been dreading. But they don't have all the facts. And they don't know half the story.





	1. Audition

Lesley's hands weren't shaking. She was surprised at how much shaking they weren't doing. Nor was she dizzy, nauseous, about to vomit or keel over or cry -- all the usual side effects of murder.

Hah, side effects of murder. May include being dead.

No, side effects of becoming a murderer -- she'd seen them dozens of times. Men who went too far after they found their girlfriends cheating. Drivers just over the legal limit with bits of ex-pedestrian splattered on their windshield. Kids who were younger than they looked, young enough to believe when the older blokes said they were only gonna rough the other guy up a bit.

And now her.

Maybe it was different when the act was pre-meditated. Less life-altering somehow. She'd been meditating on killing Martin for a long, long time.

When Martin had given her the gun he'd taught her how to shoot it himself. And when she'd hit the paper target dead in the heart for the first time she looked at him and smiled, thinking chances are I'm going to kill you with this gun, I'm going to end your miserable life, and he'd told her he was proud of her progress. That he had no doubt she could use it well when the time came. He meant use it on his enemies, and there was no reason for him to doubt that his enemies weren’t the same as hers. Goes to show, she supposed.

She didn’t know if he’d really believed it, believed that she would shoot someone she used to work with, that she could justify killing a member of the Met. Killing Seawoll, or Stephanopoulos; maybe some lowly PC like Carey (or was he a DC now?) – that she could live with herself if she killed Peter.

Maybe she could’ve. She didn’t know. She certainly seemed to be dealing with this murder well enough. And as for what Martin thought she was capable of, well, that hardly mattered now.

She kept running, knowing full well that Peter wasn't coming after her and mostly certain that his backup wasn't coming after her either. The Nightingale was safely miles away on a wild goose chase. The rest of the Met wouldn't know what to do if they caught her.

She didn't know what she'd do if they caught her either.

Then it occurred to her that he didn’t know she’d done it yet, he was still blissfully ignorant. But he would find out, and he would have to act surprised and horrified and grimly disapproving, as if it hadn’t been him giving the orders. As if it hadn’t been his idea to begin with.

The thought of Nightingale trying to look convincingly shocked was amusing enough to make her actually smile.

Lesley kept running, hands steady, breath even.

Later, she thought, it would all come crashing down on her -- the weight of what she'd done, the fact that it was all over now, the rampant uncertainty of her future, et cetera et cetera. But for now, she was perfectly calm -- all she had to do was get away. Just keep running.  
She was going to have to keep running for a long, long time.

 

 

DECEMBER 2012

The operation in the underground had gone to shit, ironically enough given the sewage and all.

Lesley had been left standing at the mouth of the secret tunnel radioing Peter and Kumar again and again with nothing. Nightingale and the other patrolman had come back from their exploration, and when she’d told him that Peter had dropped off the radar she could tell he was running through all the wacky and wonderful ways to die in the underground the BTP had warned them of.

He’d wanted to go after them, she could tell, but there was no way anyone was allowing that. So, with no further Falcon "expertise" (read: interference) deemed necessary by the officers on the scene, he went back to the Folly. Lesley stayed out, listening for the radio, until Stephanopoulos threatened her with disciplinary action if she didn’t go home and go to sleep.

She was heading down a tiny side street that wasn’t really much more than a glorified alleyway, it was dark, the dim orange glow of the lampposts left plenty of shadows. Void of people. It had to be around 4 AM, so there was good reason for that, and no good reason for the hairs on the back of her neck to be standing up. But part of being a copper is trusting your intuition.

When she turned behind her she found her instincts had been spot on.

A man had followed her down the street: well-dressed, definitely posh, white, carrying a cane a lot like her boss's, and his face... She tried to get a good look at it, but she found herself not wanting to somehow, her eyes just slid off, focusing on random other details.

Shit.

This had to be the Faceless Man -- Peter had barely survived meeting him back in the summer and she’d been warned under no circumstances should she try to bring him in unless Nightingale was less than three meters away. He was armed, dangerous and more than happy to kill her if he couldn't seducere her into offing herself first. Protocol for dealing with criminals who outgunned you was usually: disarm them or convince them to put the weapon down (not an option), keep them talking until backup came (backup wasn't coming), or play the friendly hostage till either they let you go or you got the chance to make a run for it.

'I'm unarmed,' was what she opened with, figuring that there was no point in trying to convince him she was any less helpless than she was. She wondered if she could manage to send a text without taking her mobile out of her jacket pocket.

‘Now, now Lesley,’ he sounded calm, and a bit condescending. ‘We both know there’s nothing you could do to stop me if I was here to kill you. Which I’m not, by the way, so no need to be so on edge.’

‘Okay,’ she replied slowly, 'good to hear.' And then to keep him talking -- 'Can I ask why you're following me then?' For once, she was glad for the vile plastic mask: it was hiding her expression of panic really well.

‘That thing looks awfully uncomfortable,’ he gestured to the mask with his cane, as if he’d read her mind, which she really fucking hoped he hadn’t. ‘Must be a bloody nuisance to wear, especially on hot days.’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ She agreed, taking a tiny, slow step backwards. She tried to unlock her phone and it buzzed to tell her the password she'd put in was wrong.

‘I take it you haven’t found any way to undo the damage that was done?’

‘No…’ That wasn't good. Taking a personal interest in her injuries wasn't good. ‘Looks like the wind changed and it’s stuck like this,’ she gestured to the mask while taking another subtle step back. ‘Not that it makes any sense for you to care.’

‘Oh, you would be surprised.’ Oh no. The panic grew as she realised he was here for her personally, that he'd sought her out because of her injuries -- which decimated her chances of getting out of this encounter quickly and unharmed.

Then she remembered. The experiments Peter had told her about, the cat girls and tiger boys and things brought to life that should never have been, and the Venn diagram of "mutations caused by magic" and where she fit in that, where she would fit in the Faceless Man's catalogue of nightmares. Half of her brain was trying to think of a way out or a distraction and the rest was stuck in a loop of _what the hell does he want with me?_

‘I expect you’ve exhausted all the research that might have helped you. But I have access to writings the Folly’s never even seen.’

He moved closer and she cursed internally. She had to keep him talking.

‘And this would interest me… why?’

‘I think you know what I’m offering you, Lesley.’

Shit.

He was here to make a deal.

He was offering to fix her face, in exchange for information or loyalty or whatever the fuck he wanted, a classic case of bribery and blackmail that had been keeping career criminals out of jail for generations.

He was offering to _fix her face._

And he actually thought there was a chance in hell she'd take him up on it. Who the fuck did he think she was? Did she really come off as that spineless or was he just unusually optimistic? Anger replaced the fear, and she did realise that neither was going to help her escape but her chances of running for it were now next none. Her only option was to talk her way out. So she took a steadying breath and thought through her options. She had something he wanted, evidently, and that gave her some kind of advantage; but was he going to let her walk away without it? Or would she have to sign her soul off to leave this alleyway alive? She needed an excuse, a reason for one of them to leave without committing to anything that wasn't "you make me sick and I'd gladly walk you up the steps myself so take your offer and shove it up your arse". She needed to buy time.

'Are you seriously saying you think you can...' she floundered for a word that'd convey the right amount of interest. ' _Undo_ this?'

'I can. And I'm more than willing to for a little help in return.'

'I’ve got no reason to believe you or trust you. I’m not going to take any offers or make any deals,’ she took a deep breath, swallowed her fear and her pride and her loyalty. ‘Unless you show me some proof.’

She’d hoped that line would lead him to believe she was willing while giving him cause to let her go for now; but it was a risky move.

When he reached inside his coat she thought she was properly fucked until he pulled out an envelope -- which made sense, because if he wanted to kill her he’d do it with a fireball, not a gun. Didn't stop her heart rate from skyrocketing.

He threw the envelope down at her feet, and when she shot him as much of a suspicious glare as she could get through the plastic mask he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. ‘It's nothing dangerous – you asked for proof, so there it is.’

Shit. So much for that plan.

Inside the envelope were photographs, likely from before the turn to digital by the picture quality. They were mostly closeups of animal body parts, in unnaturally bright lighting that suggested a hospital or lab. After a while she worked out they were of the creations, the chimeras she'd heard about – but sanitized, showing only individual limbs or graft sites, and not the whole abominations. Carefully selected so as not to scare her off.

At the back were a group of scaled-down prints of scientific documents that Peter maybe could’ve parsed but just seemed like jargon to her, although one thing was clear: they detailed the success of various experiments involving the magical alteration of flesh. That, and they were dated in the 70s.

She put them back in the envelope and threw it back to him. She reckoned her next step was to act just a little less unconvinced than she was, but she also knew she was running out of options. ‘…These are old. Very old.’

‘Before you were born, I think. Imagine the progress made since then, and what that progress could do for your particular problem. If you’re thinking of pretending you’re not tempted – don’t. You see, Lesley,’ he started walking towards her and she fought the temptation to back away. ‘You’re not like your colleague Peter, he’s quite content to play the hero. No, you don’t strike me as being that delusional – you have _real_ ambition. Real potential, too. Potential that’s wasted in your current position.’

He was standing right in front of her now and she still couldn’t look directly at his face, but then again, he couldn’t see hers either.

‘Of course, you’re a straight-laced officer with morals of steel, you’d never betray the force, et cetera et cetera, I’ll just spare you the act.’ He held out a business card in one gloved hand. ‘Consider it. What my research could do for you… and what your potential could do for me.’

Her hand shook as she took the card from him. ‘You’re joking.’ It sounded hollow, from the fear, but she hoped he heard it like surrender.

‘Not in the slightest. Now, if you’re thinking of telling the Nightingale all about this conversation I would think again – you don't want to know what they did to suspected spies back in his day.’

She stared down at the card. It had an address that she didn’t recognize, a time and a date. Two days from now, one in the afternoon. A meeting place to hash out a proper deal – thank _fuck_. He might actually let her walk away...

Before she could think of a reply, she glanced up to find the alleyway empty. Not taking any fucking chances she turned and legged it, already pulling out her mobile and ringing the Folly -- she could barely hear the dial tone over the pounding of her heart and of her feet on the pavement. Nightingale picked up on the fourth ring and didn't even sound like he'd been asleep -- which was a good thing cause he'd want to be alert for what she was about to tell him. 

 

 *

 

When Lesley got to the Folly at some godforsaken hour of the morning, light was already beginning to edge the tops of the buildings. She wondered if Peter and Sergeant Kumar had been found yet, or if they were still wandering the tunnels out of reach of radio.

She came in through the front door, and Nightingale was waiting in the atrium, straight-backed and wide awake like it wasn't some time past five AM.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Were you followed?’ He made to check the back door, but she blocked his path.

‘Sir, _listen_. I just met the Faceless Man, and he offered me a job.’ She held out the card for him to see, the little black letters spelling out time and place – and an opportunity. 

Because she'd had a lot running through her head on the walk over (mostly variations on _fuck! Jesus fucking Christ! Holy shit I could've fucking died_ ), but somewhere in between the relief and panic she'd glanced down at the card and found herself thinking. And it occurred to her, just hypothetically, that if she turned up at the address on the day listed and said she'd be totally down to join his criminal organisation, the Faceless Man would have no reason not to take her at her word -- no reason to believe his plan hadn't worked perfectly. Because they were woefully unequipped to take him on as they stood, knowing nothing about him, not even his name, and here he was straight up offering her... _this_.

Nightingale looked like he knew what she was thinking and was already gearing up to tell her to leave the mad ideas to Peter. ‘I think we’d better sit down.’

Lesley hadn’t realised how exhausted she was until she crashed out in a chair in the mundane library, but most of the adrenaline still hadn’t left her system, because the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

The Faceless Man genuinely wanted to recruit her.

He’d picked a time when she was alone, prepared a pitch to convince her it was worth her while, brought evidence to back it up and had let her go even though she hadn’t immediately agreed – the whole thing had been planned because he needed her on his side. For what purpose she didn’t know, but he sure as hell wasn’t offering to fix her face as an act of charity.

‘He’s looking for an apprentice. And if he can steal one right out of the Folly, that’s just an added bonus, not to mention another mole in the Met. You know what this means?’ She took a steadying breath and levelled her gaze. ‘It means we have something he wants. We have leverage.’

Nightingale was silent for a long time, his face unreadable. Peter might've had a chance at reading his expression, but Lesley just had to sit and wait.

Finally, slowly, he spoke. ‘Do you have any experience with undercover work?’

‘No, sir, although I did take the basic course.’

Nightingale considered her, a hint of disapproval becoming evident in the tilt of his eyebrow. ‘And yet that’s exactly what you’re suggesting? That you, an inexperienced constable and even less experienced practitioner, take this offer, and infiltrate his operation? You’d be putting yourself in danger of death at the very least.’

He had a point. But she was the only one in any position to attempt it -- if she didn't try, no one could.

‘I’m the one he wants, sir. If we were to get someone with experience, someone who knows undercover, they would have to work their way up through his organisation, and without any knowledge of magic they wouldn’t get far. That leaves me, Peter, and yourself – and no offence, sir, but Peter would be shit at undercover and we both know it.’

Not that she’d thought Nightingale would even consider putting Peter in that much danger. He wasn’t that keen on putting her in any danger either, but that was more principle than anything else, women not belonging on the front lines and all.

‘Peter wouldn’t last seconds, he’d blow it the as soon he saw someone in danger, screw the bigger picture. Some people are just heroes like that. They think there’s an invisible line they can never cross, that there’s always a better way, always another option.’

Lesley looked Nightingale right in the eye, like she’d looked at Seawoll when he’d asked if she thought she could cut it in the murder team, like she’d looked at the instructor at Hendon who told her that not so long ago she would've been turned away just for her height, like she used to look at the boys in the playground before she kicked them in the shins and ran away. A look that said _I'll show you, I'll prove it_.

‘We know better than that, though, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Nightingale looked right back at her, a strange expression on his face, like he was giving deep consideration to whether he knew her as well as he’d thought. ‘Yes, we do.’

And then he sighed, his posture caving just a fraction under the weight of the day – and that was it. She knew she’d convinced him. Which made the events of the past few hours seem slightly more real than they had done, and yet she still didn't doubt what she was doing.

‘You understand how likely it is that the Faceless Man has operatives inside the Met,’ Nightingale began, his face graver now which was definitely a cause for concern. ‘If we were to organise an operation of this importance it would have to be highly classified. Your family, Peter, the murder team at Belgravia – everyone would have to be kept in the dark about what you were doing.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I don’t think you do, Lesley,’ he sounded almost pitying, and it scared her. ‘Because if we were to organise an operation such as this through official channels, it would never be approved.’

… Oh.

Now she thought about it, of course it wouldn’t. The Faceless Man was too dangerous, especially in the eyes of higher-ups who barely understood magic, and throwing her straight into the highest level of a criminal enterprise was too much of a risk.

‘I’ll convince them, if I can get Seawoll to vouch for me then – but the deadline is in two days. There’s no time.’

‘You’re right. Even in better circumstances, two days is not nearly enough time to get approval for something like this.’

 He stopped, but he didn't sound like he was done. Then when she met his eyes she saw the question there before he even had to ask it.

'... I would never ask you to do anything you weren't ready for, Lesley.'

That bastard.

Lesley could see why the rest of the Met hated his guts, especially Seawoll – nothing was an obstacle to the Nightingale. Certainly not the law.

‘You know, I think I remember saying something earlier about the right thing -- how it's not always a clear choice,' she spoke carefully, making sure he knew she understood exactly what they were discussing. 'I think sometimes the right thing is the hardest thing you can do. But I’m willing. Anyone capable of the things the Faceless Man was had to be stopped. No matter the cost.’

Once again, it was a long time before Nightingale replied. ‘No matter the cost? Are you absolutely certain? Because I want you to know exactly what it is you’d be getting into if you go ahead with this. Without official record of an undercover operation taking place there would be nothing protecting you legally should you have to lose your cover. For all intents and purposes, you would be an accessory to the Faceless Man’s crimes.’

‘Then I’ll try not to get caught, sir.’

He gave her an incredulous look. ‘Your career, Lesley. That’s what’s at stake should you succeed, not to mention the risk posed to your life simply by attempting. Should this go wrong you may never work in the Met again.’

‘No offense, sir, but this isn't about my career -- this is about doing my job. Preventing literal crimes against humanity. I don't see why anything should be more important than that.'

He nodded. And that was that.

They spent another hour or so going over the details and establishing ground rules: this was deep cover, which meant she would tell no one anything, and would discuss the mission with Nightingale only if absolutely necessary. The objective, he decided, was not information gathering -- if the Folly were to turn up at the Faceless Man's house asking for him by name the day after he reveals his identity to his new lieutenant, chances were he'd kill Lesley before going into hiding, and they'd be significantly worse off than when they started.

Instead, Lesley would be something of a sleeper agent: she would learn as much as she could in case they needed to get her out early, she would discreetly sabotage as much of his plans as she could, and when they were finally able to safely arrest the Faceless Man she would turn on him.

For as long as she could, she would maintain the cover of a double agent, but if she had to appear to betray the Met to keep the Faceless Man's trust then she would do what she had to.

The ends, they decided, would justify the means.

It was almost seven when Lesley finally went to sleep, and she woke up a horrendously short while later to hear that Peter had been found, and that he'd blown up a tube station.  
 

 *

 

Something felt inherently wrong about meeting a wanted criminal in a public place without a van-load of backup waiting round the corner. Well, a lot of things felt wrong about it, but that one more than any. Lesley kept checking her phone and then realising that there was no need; no signals to give, no orders coming in, no one to come barrelling in with riot gear and cuffs if it all went south. It felt like skydiving without a parachute.

She didn’t spot the Faceless Man until he sat down in the seat opposite from her and picked up a menu. He was wearing a pricy looking suit of the wrong fit to conceal a weapon, not that he needed one to kill her, and his face was as inscrutable as the first time they’d met.

Lesley didn’t think she saw anyone suspicious lurking on corners or outside cafes, but then again, he didn’t need backup if he believed she'd come alone.

She’d just have to make herself believable.

‘Good afternoon, Lesley,’ he said, cheerful as if he were meeting a friend to catch up. ‘I’m very glad you’re here, I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come at all.’

‘Neither was I. At first.’ This was the character her and Nightingale had decided on: surly, unenthusiastic, interested only in seeing him fulfil his end of the bargain. Her supposed hatred for her face was a weakness he was exploiting, and she intended to act like it.

‘I expect you want to get straight to business?’

‘I do. But before we start I need to know – can you actually do what you’re promising? I know about the chimeras but that's different. Can you,’ she lowered her voice, gesturing to her face under its plastic mask, ‘fix it?’

Somehow, without seeing his expression, she got the impression he was smiling. ‘Right here at this table? No, I’m afraid. But I’ve been doing some experimentation and I can say the results have been _very_ promising – with a bit of luck you can have any face you like by, say, this June?’

Six months. That was the first real time frame she’d got, and she didn’t know what the hell to make of it.

On the one hand, that meant that barring any disasters she’d be undercover at least till then. Six months wasn’t so bad – she’d heard of MI6 agents and the like who were undercover for decades – but on the other hand, what did she do after that? If June rolled around and she got her face back, then… what?

 _Figure it out later_ , she thought.

‘June. Is that a guarantee?’ she said.

‘More or less.’

‘I’d like a bit more certainty than ‘more or less’ before I sign my life away, thanks.’

‘Then adjust your expectations.’ Came the stern reply. Then slightly apologetic – ‘If it were… any other kind of exchange, anything else you were looking to acquire, we’d be talking days if not hours. But magic is unpredictable, and it takes time to, shall we say, iron out the creases. And no magic of this specific nature has been attempted before, we have no frame of reference. I’d say June is fairly specific given the circumstances, wouldn’t you?’

Lesley pretended to think it over. ‘Alright then. Alright.’ She forced herself to pause, not seem too eager. ‘What’s the price? What do you want from me in return?’

‘Oh, not much, not much at all. A few errands here and there at first. Nothing that would arouse the suspicion of your friends at the Folly, if you’re concerned.’

‘… At first?’

He took a deep breath, and steepled his hands on the table before them. ‘How many people in this country do you think have any legitimate form of training in the Newtonian practice?’

‘…Not counting what’s left of the Folly’s old lot? Four.’

‘Pffft, well, that’s… a _little_ off, but you’ve got the gist – not many. And considering the speed at which you’re picking up the forms and wisdoms, the potential that you have: you’re important, Lesley. Far more important than your colleagues seem to realise. And not to fall into an absolute caricature of myself, but it’s more about what I can do for you –’

‘Seriously?’

‘I know, I know, but really; with the right training, with the things I could teach you, the skills you could develop as _my_ apprentice…’ he let the sentence trail off meaningfully.

So, she’d been right. He wasn’t just looking for a mole, or another lackey: he wanted a right-hand man. He was offering her a way in at the top of his operation, and all she had to do was earn his trust. If she did that, she’d be in, she’d be close enough to start the long, slow process of taking him down from the inside – or to stab him in the back when the time came.

This was it. However long it lasted, whatever she had to do to keep her cover, whoever she became when it was all over; this was the beginning of it all.

‘In that case… when do we start?’  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all credit for the basis of this fic goes to my mum, who came up with the genius theory that lesley is a double agent and only nightingale knows. the more i thought about it the more sense it made cause lesley is the exact kind of character who would do the wrong thing for the right reasons, and thomas "extrajudicial murder squad on speed dial" nightingale is the EXACT kind of character who would bend the law to get smth done


	2. Matinée

APRIL 2013

 

Varvara was having a very _trying_ day. First, she'd woken up and realised she'd run out of coffee, which had made everything that happened after just a little bit worse. The bastards she had to work with were, well, bastards, and so incompetent they gave her a headache, not to mention the sexist remarks they thought she didn't hear. Ugh. Why she ever conceded to working with help she couldn't recall. Then the two Isaacs had sauntered right up the garden path into the middle of things, and that had been the cherry on a rotten fucking cake. 

 

Of course, they now had to speed things up: once the shed was no longer needed for storing the shells, which it had stopped being fairly recently, the plan was always to burn this place to the ground, or at least do enough damage to cover up the _vestigia._ But that was very low on a long, long, list of her employer's priorities, most of which she really wasn't privy to, so she'd been thinking of leaving it till maybe June some time when, in theory, whatever was in the works would be long over and she'd be on to her next job. Instead, it would be done today, and all through the trip to get the petrol she was sorely considering offing all three of her minions and torching their bodies along with. God, it had been so long since she'd last killed anyone. Most of her work since the turn of the century, and even for a few years before that, had been mundane and largely bloodless; but she could never forget the years she spent in the assassination game. Those were the days. 

 

When she got back to the barn her reveries were broken by a more important kind of memory. Well, actually they were broken by a flash of disdain for the practice of dog fighting (why fight dogs? Lazy bastards should get in the ring and fight each other themselves, now _that's_ a show); but then she remembered the other thing. When she'd asked her boss what to do, should she suffer a run in with London's magical law enforcement, and if she had the go ahead to kill the underlings -- he'd said yes, so long as she covered her tracks, killing them was no riskier than killing any cop -- but then he'd stopped. Changed his mind. And said the blonde girl, without a face, she was useful to them. He hadn't specified why, but Varvara assumed she was a mole or informant of some kind. 

 

She thought about it for a while, and then decided she would kill her anyway. And if the boss didn't like it, well, he should've been more specific -- "could be useful" carries a broad meaning compared to "do not, under any circumstances, kill the blonde". If he didn't trust her enough to keep her alive then she could be replaced. Much like Max and Barry. If she killed them too, it would look like they died trying to burn the other bodies and no one would be any the wiser...

 

Inside the barn the two Isaacs were still kneeling where she'd left them. They must be getting all kinds of cramp by now -- better to put them out of their misery. 

 

‘Okay, in a couple of minutes I want you two to shoot these two in the head and douse everything with petrol.’ The couple of minutes were to make up her mind about killing the rest of them. 

 

And if course, one of the fuckers had to chime in with his own complaint. ‘They’re police, I don’t think this is a good idea.’ What else had she sodding expected?

 

She missed her godson. He was a professional. A true prodigy. She'd tell him who his targets were, and he'd be off like a hound after a rabbit, returning bloodstained and successful every time and still with the consideration to stop and help out with her own particularly difficult marks. Such a polite young man. 

 

She was just about to tell Max and Barry exactly what she thought of their ideas when the blonde interrupted. ‘Listen, Varvara,’ she said. ‘You really want to talk to your boss before you do anything hasty.’

 

Ha! This one was definitely dying tonight. She was a mole alright, or a double agent, just not a good one. Clearly, she overestimated how much she meant to their employer, how much he trusted her. No, this one would not be missed. 

 

Half way through attempting to verbally corral her supposed "help" into doing their jobs and shooting the prisoners, she stopped. Listened.

 

There was a car engine coming up the drive, and her day was about to get _so_ much worse.

 

 

*

 

 

Lesley’s hands were shaking. She didn’t know if she’d dropped the taser on purpose or not, they were shaking that bad. 

 

‘You chose wisely, Lesley.’ It’s the first thing her boss has said to her since she helped him escape. ‘It had to happen eventually, you knew that.’

 

She did, that was the worst thing. She knew from day one that there was a high chance she would have to blow her cover, betray the Met and publicly declare herself to be working for the Faceless Man. She knew it was going to happen.

 

She knew, but she still wasn’t ready.

 

When she’d seen Peter through the dust cloud her heart had stopped, because she’d thought he was going to die just seconds ago when the building went and there he was, alive -- and because this was it. This was the moment, this was _it_ and she was going to have to choose right then and there which oath she was going to break.

 

Of course, Peter couldn’t have just worked it out himself, could he? God, that would’ve made it so much easier, but no, despite Lesley’s best efforts to improve his awareness and common bloody sense, he remained the most unobservant copper in the world, and that just meant he didn’t know what was coming. 

 

Even when the Faceless Man had said to her, said out loud it was _time to decide_ , Peter didn’t get it. He had his back to her. He didn’t see her take the taser out.

 

And a voice in her head told her she could aim a little different and shoot her boss instead and they would find a way, the three of them at the Folly, they’d find a way to keep him prisoner and she and Peter would be heroes, heroes who took down the most dangerous magical threat in London. And she could _hear_ Stephanopoulos congratulating her, and then telling her not to expect any special treatment, and Seawoll would lament that she was doing all this good work for the Folly and not the Murder Team. And she would go on, and nothing would change, and she would have a future not so different from the one she’d wanted since she left high school.

 

But real life doesn’t work like that. Giving up now would not be heroic, "heroic" would be sticking it out till the time was right. Heroic would be going unrewarded and unrecognised.

 

She had a promise to keep.

 

So, she shot her best friend in the back with a taser and ran.

 

‘Don’t be disheartened, Lesley,’ She blinked in surprise when he spoke and pulled her back into the moment. ‘I know it must have been difficult for you, but the decision has been made – the _right_ decision, I’ll add – and there’s no going back. You have a future full of opportunity now.’

 

‘I’m glad it’s done, sir. Just didn’t expect it to happen like it did.’ Inside her mind was shouting _no going back no going back_ but she felt weirdly calm, weirdly distant. She gripped her hands in her lap to hide the shaking.

 

'It was all very dramatic, yes, what with the detonation only minutes before. And, Lesley,' she glanced up to see he'd taken off his mask. He was younger than she'd expected. 'Feel free to call me Martin from now on.'

First names weren't as good as surnames for finding people in the system, but she could make up for it with all the background details she'd picked up, cross referenced with the watchlists Peter had compiled, they could find him in days. And what then? Run back to the Folly, be locked in an interrogation room and wait for him to send one of his creepy fae assassins after her? He'd know it was her who told. And he wouldn't let her get away with it. 

 

'Did I earn that back there with the tasering?'

 

'Absolutely. I've put my full trust in you now. Don't make me regret it.'

 

'You don't have to worry about that from me.'

 

'Good. I always thought as much.'

 

They would be opening a case file with her name on it soon. DPS would be all over Peter, he probably wouldn't see the outside of an interview room for weeks, months even. She couldn’t see her family again, couldn’t text or call without feeding data into the inquiry about to open, or worse, putting them in danger of legal repercussions when they _didn’t_ tell.

 

And then the real penny dropped.

 

She was never going to be a copper again.

 

That was it, for her, she was out, and she was never coming back. What she’d done could not be justified or overturned or swept under the rug with a suspension, she had broken something that could never be fixed.

 

She laughed. Out loud, she couldn’t help it, and Martin looked at her, confused and she laughed some more because it was for him, wasn’t it? Everything she’d just been freaking out about losing she’d lost because of the man sitting next to her, and _God was she going to make him pay._ What was her career compared to this? What was sitting in the tech cave chipping away at weak leads and inevitably coming up against a wall of lawyers and alibis compared to sitting right here in a getaway car with the man himself -- _he put his trust in her,_ for Christ's sakes. Yes, she'd hurt everyone she used to work with, yes, she'd betrayed them. But it was all worth it. Nothing could stop her now, because she had nothing left to lose – nothing could stop her from taking him down. She would wait. She would watch. She would learn all she could. She would stop his grand plans and sabotage his operation and then Lesley was going to take him down.

 

‘What’s so funny all of a sudden?’

 

‘Nothing, sir. I was just thinking; the look on his face. He never knew what hit him.’

 

 

SEPTEMBER 2014

Seeing Peter was pretty much the highlight of her week, despite the fact they'd been trying their best to beat each other up. Lesley had to hand it to him, he'd kept a remarkably straight face when she'd sat down across from him in the Harrod's cafe -- Reynard Fossman, on the other hand, had been the dictionary definition of shitting himself, and that had been deeply satisfying. 

 

Her task had been to bring the fox in; partly to get the _principia_ back but mostly so that Martin could kill him in a very complicated and painful way (Reynard was pretty much the one victim she wouldn't be losing any sleep over, that pervert). Peter being there was irrelevant, supposedly, except for how much he got in the way, but of course she hadn't been able to resist her dramatic entrance. Maybe she'd have gotten away with her prize if she'd resisted the urge to swan in like they were just old friends meeting for lunch, but that would've taken the joy out of it. She had to take that where she could find it these days. 

 

One year, ten months. The specifics for confusing. She'd been undercover longer than she'd been a non-probationary member of the Met and she'd be lying if she said it wasn't taking its toll. Hell, she'd be lying if she said she didn't regret everything that had led her here with a bitterness that burned the back of her throat most days but she'd learned to put that out of her mind. She used to daydream of slamming a cell door between her and Martin Chorley, her old colleagues gathered around her, and Peter would make a joke about the tasering incident and all would be forgiven. Then that had stopped working. Now when she closed her eyes, she saw... Never mind. It didn’t matter now.

 

She was going home soon.

 

The other day she'd got a call from her boss: not unusual, perfectly expected in fact. What he said when she picked up was quite the opposite.

  


'They know.'

 

'Know what? Not -- _shit._ They didn't...'

 

'My name, my face, everything unfortunately.'

 

They knew his name. She could only assume they were on Reynard with at least three surveillance teams, that they would use him as bait to lead themselves to Martin. Whose name they knew. Whose perfect disguise they'd ripped off. They were coming for him. And Lesley would be ready when they did. 

 

'What's the plan, sir?' 

 

'We follow the fox, see if we can't get back our stolen goods and kill the vermin at the same time,' he sounded calmer than he had since Christina had died. Maybe it was just a sign he'd taken that final nosedive into insanity he'd been lining up for a while. 'Then we go to ground. I won't bore you with the details, most of it will involve shoring up various assets -- you can keep your flat, obviously -- and operating from now on in complete secrecy will throw a spanner in the works. But this is just a minor setback. Nothing that will get in the way of the grander plan.'

 

'Of course not.' 

 

The grander plan, which he still hadn’t explained to her in full but which she seemed to be pivotal for.

 

But she wouldn't be there to play whatever role he had for her. Because now they knew his name, they were coming for him, and the matter of time in “it’s only a matter of time before you can come home” just went from another year to weeks if she was lucky.

 

Standing around by the Wellington Arch she couldn’t help but feel like it was all coming to a close. One way or another. 

 

Now her role was as the distraction, the bait that would lure Peter away from Reynard and the two practitioners long enough for Martin to deal with them. However, she knew for a fact the Met were already converging on One Hyde Park so realistically her role would be to deal with Reynard and find the _principia_ herself while Nightingale and possibly also Lady Helena kept Martin occupied.

 

Or, that was the role Martin had given her. What she intended on doing was stabbing him in the back so that Nightingale could arrest him – they’d had practice dealing with the Night Witch so they should be able to hold him if Nightingale could subdue him first, which she had every reason to believe he could do, at which point she would be there to make sure that once down, he did not get back up again.

 

This was what she’d gone undercover for in the first place: to be there when the time came. It was the end that would justify the means, justify the months of her life spent doing things that ought to keep her up at night – when they arrested Martin Chorley tonight, it would all be worth it.

 

 

*

 

 

She’d led Peter away, acting so obviously like bait she was disappointed how long it took him to stop following her. But of course, he did, and then she was told to make her way to the underground car park of One Hyde Park and hunt for the _principia_ while Martin lured law enforcement upstairs. Which is where she’d been, ripping doors off of cars, when she’d felt the beginnings of a duel on the floors above. And where she was when Martin walked in.  

 

‘I’ve lost him for now – should take him a while to get past the booby traps. Any luck?’

 

It took her almost a full second to put aside her bitter disbelief that he’d made it downstairs and reply. ‘None so far. But we know they were headed here before I scared them off, so it has to be around.’ Why hadn’t Nightingale done his job? She’d rarely seen Martin at his most deadly but still found it difficult to believe he could seriously hold up against Nightingale in what Peter used to call “full tank-destroyer mode”. So, he’d lost him, and the whole floor was trapped out meaning he wouldn’t be arriving any time soon – so she needed to stall. Ideally one of the myriad other parties currently roaming the building would intervene: Tyburn or Lady Helena would be best given they could hold their own.

 

Naturally Peter chose that moment to waltz right on in. Martin knocked him down and he tried to get up again, and Lesley couldn’t hold in a warning, or the feeling of relief when Peter stayed on the ground. Her boss wouldn’t kill him right in front of her – she was too important to his grand plan – but he wasn’t going to draw the line at roughing him up enough to put him out of commission for the immediate future. She needed him on his feet when Nightingale made it down to the basement – they would need all the backup they could get, and Peter was it. She could tell Martin was making to take his staff so she said the first thing that came to mind – it might be booby trapped – and that was another element in their favour for now. What was taking Nightingale so long…

 

Peter managed to get Martin monologuing. She blew off three more car doors before she heard a deafening crash and remembered, belatedly, she’d completely forgotten Reynard was still in the building and _then_ Nightingale decided to show his face. Martin was no way close to done yet so she dove between the cars as the high order spells started flying, Peter and Guleed not far behind her. They tried to arrest her of course which was inconvenient but Peter was still clumsy with the speed cuffs so she was able to get free long enough to see that Martin was leaving the basement, and she tried to warn Peter and Guleed but they must have assumed she was talking about Reynard who was making a break for it in the Renault which somebody, probably Martin, set on fire. She ran after him, but there was too much smoke in her lungs. She lost him, just for a while, just long enough.

 

He got away. This was supposed to be the night it all ended. But he fucking got away.

 

Much later, he called her, gave her a rendezvous point and she listened numbly to the orders, thinking all the while _you should be in jail right now. What the fuck did I do wrong?_

 

_What the fuck did I do wrong?_

 

Until it hit her, it wasn’t her that messed up. It was Nightingale.

 

She hadn’t lost Martin, he had. And she was sure, she was _certain_ as her copper’s instinct had ever led her to be that he had held back in that fight, that he had held back on purpose. Because what would happen, if he didn’t hold back? If he’d killed Martin back in One Hyde Park in the middle of a high-profile police operation? Even if he could argue self-defence or whatever no one knew enough about magic to prove it, he’d have to be suspended at the very least, and where would that leave Peter? Two years into his apprenticeship, a lowly PC heading up a department of one dealing with every magical crime in the country. Not an option.

 

Nightingale was not going to do this for her. She was on her own.

 

When she’d started this all those months ago, she’d thought she was making a sacrifice for the greater good: it wasn’t about her, it was about the countless lives that would be saved by taking the Faceless Man down, the countless victims given justice. And although she’d known that she was breaking the law, deep down it was just an undercover operation to her, it was just part of the job.

 

She wasn’t on the job. She hadn’t been in a long, long time, and now it felt real.

 

Now, for the first time, Lesley realised that of the two people she’d been living as for the past year, the criminal wasn’t the lie.

 

So, what the fuck was the point? What the fuck did she do now? What could possibly make any of this worth it?

 

She’d reached the safehouse. There would be medics there, and oxygen which she sorely needed. She would stay for a while and then go back to her still undiscovered flat and probably call Zack and wait for new orders. And she would figure it out, somehow, they had time before the final phases of the plan were set in motion.

 

She would figure out a way to kill the Faceless Man. She would figure out a way to make this worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> limiting this to just key scenes otherwise I'd literally be rewriting the entire series lmao. I wanted to write something from Varvara's pov given she's one of my all time faves and I thought of the barn fight scene bc Lesley is so deeply, deeply unsubtle in that one, and rereading Broken Homes knowing the ending i was amazed i didn't spot it before like she's basically telling Varvara not to kill her cause they work for the same person?? also Varvara having a godson is my own personal headcanon it's a bit of a crack crossover so if you really want to know abt that i would advise.. dont


	3. Finale

She should be getting used to it by now, really. She should know that the only way to get something done was to do it herself. At first that had been stopping Martin, and then he'd told her his mad plan and her priorities had changed to that. Killing Punch. The only person who could make Martin seem like the lesser of two evils. 

But of course he'd failed her. She had Peter to thank for that.

Lesley knew she should've seen it coming, and not let herself put her last shreds of hope into this so she wouldn't be feeling the crushing disappointment that she was feeling now, but she guessed some part of her hadn't given up on the original plan. 

Some part of her had thought this could still all be worth it, if they killed punch and then she killed Martin and at the end of the day the world was a better place and she got some vindication in exchange for everything she'd lost. 

She really should have seen it coming. 

And now, she had to deal with the aftermath herself.

Safety off. Sightline clear.

Point blank range.

Unfortunately for Peter, the Faceless Man would not be spending any time in prison -- she had promises to keep.

They'd been in the mundane library, it had been sod-off in the morning on a night of no sleep. 'So, if comes down to blowing my fake cover of blowing my real cover...?' Lesley had asked. 

'Then you tell the world that you're in league with The Faceless Man.' Nightingale answered. 

'We'll just have to hope it doesn't come down to it then, cause I don't see much of a way back from that.'

Nightingale had looked concerned, more so than he did already. 'When you come back, no matter how many charges are made against you, I will take all the blame I can for this, Lesley. Ideally at this point in the future you and Peter will be more than capable of running the Folly together without my help, but even if not, I'd rather I take the fall for this than you. Whatever it takes to convince Internal Affairs of your innocence. You have my word on that.'

'... Thank you, sir. I really hope you won't have to.'

'As do I.' 

She'd thought that was the worst of it, they'd gone through every scenario and protocol and caveat. She would infiltrate the Faceless Man's organisation, become his apprentice, run his errands, and try as best she could to save lives and prevent disasters from within the belly of the beast until they found a way to lock him up and keep him there. Contact would be minimal -- this was not an intelligence gathering operation. Her friends and family and co-workers couldn't know what she was doing, and it may be years before they managed to take him down and she could come home, if she lived that long. She didn't think there was a direr warning to be issued, until she saw Nightingale's face. 

'What is it?'

When he spoke, his voice was hard and even as ever. 'There's one more thing I need to ask of you. Believe me when I say I wish I didn't.'

'Just tell me what else I need to do.'

He sucked in a breath, and there was a look in his eyes that unsettled her. She didn't quite know what it was. 

'At present, were we to somehow arrest the Faceless Man, we would have no way of safely imprisoning him. Without a full cohort of practitioners disposable to guard him at all times we simply could not prevent someone at his level of mastery from escaping.'

'I know all this, that's why I'm not going to try to bring him down until I know we're ready --'

'You won't. But Peter will.'

Oh, God. 

'You know him, Lesley. He believes it's possible to do this the right way, and he'll try to, because despite it all he still believes in that kind of thing. But you and I aren't so fortunate.'

It was true. And she knew what he was going to say next.

'If the Faceless Man is arrested, without the means to properly subdue him, he will escape, and people will die.'

She knew that, she knew it, but that didn't stop her wishing it wasn't true. Because she knew what it meant she had to do. 

'Promise me, that if the time comes before we're ready, and if I haven't found a way to do so first -- you will kill him.'

There it was. 

She knew that sometimes criminals had to be taken out in extreme situations -- a suicide bomber with a jacket full of explosives would be shot by an SCO19 sniper, for example, one life in order to save hundreds. She knew someone always had to pull the trigger. She'd met a few of them. 

But this was different, what was being asked of her was being asked in advance, it wasn't a judgement call made in the moment, it was pre-meditated. Cold blood. 

'To avenge the innocent lives he ruined, and to prevent countless more atrocities. To protect the public and do your duty as an officer of the Met.'

He'd met her eyes then, and said, 'For Peter. To save him from himself.'

She'd thought of the stories she'd heard of the strip club, the chimera, the horrible experiments and the slavery and sex trafficking. The worse things hidden further in. 

She'd thought of the three sisters he'd planned to turn into weapons, how casually he killed and forced people to kill themselves. 

She thought of the nameless, faceless women whose blood was on her hands, who he'd tortured and killed to give her back a face she didn't even want anymore. 

She thought of all the lives she hadn't been able to save, the locks she hadn't been able to slip while his back was turned, the warnings that were never sent. 

Skygarden. Hyde Park. All of his crimes, those with files and case numbers and those that haunted her own private nightmares. 

 

If he died tonight, would it all be worth it? Everything she'd done and lost and gone through? Would the ends justify the means? 

Did she even really give a fuck if they did?  
Lesley pulled the trigger. 

And just like that, he was dead. 

 

THREE DAYS LATER 

The moon hung full over Russell Square. It was late enough that the streets were deserted, with only a deadened hum of night life seeping out from the pockets of London that never slept. Night seemed to press in from all sides, eroding at the pools of light cast by each lamppost. Lesley stood in the dark and waited. 

Nightingale came around the corner and stopped, not seeing but suspecting. Cane gripped in one hand. He heard a ripping sound off to the right, the wet tearing of flesh, and Lesley stepped out of a patch of shadow -- she looked just as she had on a night like this years ago, her face a mess of old scar tissue that glinted pink and raw. She kept her distance, as he kept his. Neither one of them wanted a fight, but circumstances were eager to call for one. 'Lesley.'

'Governor.' She smiled. It looked unsettling on what remained of her mouth. Nightingale had never grown accustomed to it as Peter had, but then again, he hadn't been horrified by it to begin with. Just a little unnerved. 

 

She unnerved him now, but not for her appearance. There was something very dangerous about the way she held herself these days.

 

'You used me,' she said, voice level, not accusatory, simply stating. 'I realise that now.'

She started to circle to her left, slowly, deliberately. He didn't move. 'I'm going to run soon, and you're not going to follow me.'

'No, I'm not '

'Good.'

He wondered why she'd appeared to him with her old face, the one she had, according to the rest of the world, sacrificed everything to get rid of. 

What he didn't know is that if he'd asked her, she would've told him that she'd got used to her ruined face, except it was a part of her cover story that she hadn't and so when Martin taught her how to change it she had to, even though it felt more fake than the plastic mask had. This was the last time in a very long time that anyone was going to look at her true face and recognise Lesley May. No lies. No glamours. No deception between them. Just the truth. For the last time before she ran away from her old life for good and became truly faceless -- to the CCTV, to the recognition software, to the patrons of B&B's and hostels she would pass through. 

But he didn't ask. 

'Just tell me this,' Lesley said, pacing slowly back towards the shadow she'd emerged from. Maybe she'd been hanging around Martin too long, but now when she looked at her old boss all she saw was an antiquity, the echoes of the inbred upper class up-themselves hoarders that passed down magic like inherited titles until they ran out of people worthy to inherit, and the useless half-century of inertia that followed. No wonder she'd had to teach herself her first spell. 

 

'Just tell me: the end. Was it worth the means?'

And Nightingale didn't answer at first, didn't answer the question posed by his ex-apprentice now wanted for the murder he sanctioned. She came here bringing the fact of Chorley's death like a cat dropping a bird's corpse on the doorstep, like a hunting dog bringing back a prize catch for its master. He'd used her as a weapon to do the work he couldn't risk getting caught doing, and because of it her life was in ruins, she had nothing but the clothes on her back and the blood on her hands. There was no war for London, and he was no Ionger a soldier, but he'd acted as if he were back behind enemy lines and not an officer of the Met, broken the laws he was supposed to uphold, ruined the life he was sworn to protect. And for what?

The Faceless Man was dead. The cold truth of it hung in the air between them. There would be no new chimaeras, dead and disfigured lab rats, faces shot off or nailed to trees, heads decapitated and reanimated. They'd set out to make the world safe from him, and now, years later, it was. 

'You'll have to ask that of yourself.'

Lesley smiled. She knew her answer already, and now she knew his. That was all she'd come for. That was all she needed. 'Say hi to Peter from me, yeah?'

And she slipped into the night.


End file.
